Room of Angel
by WingLancir
Summary: An idea that plagued me after coming home from the movie, based on someone else's wonderfully written fic called 'Memory'. Angst. Spoilers for movie end.


Disclaimer: I own nothing. Though who wouldn't like to own Hugh Jackman?

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Room of Angel

The room was dark, as rooms without the lights on were wont to be. Barren, too, without much more than curtained window, bed, table, wall-based cross, weapons rack, and two dusty chairs to grace its humble space. But that was keeping in character with the man who sometimes lived in it. No memories of the distant past, and no desire to remember the day to day made for little in the way of memorabilia decor.  
  
Upon first walking into the dismal space, others had often likened its stark interior to a jail cell, minus the expected wall shackles, rats, and general dank mildewy nastiness. Tact (and a certain fear of retribution the insult might bring) kept them from voicing their opinions aloud where the room's occupant could hear them, however.  
  
He knew their thoughts anyway and did not mind. The analogy was apt enough. This room was indeed his cell, and the Church his jailer, but the invisible manacles upon his hands were of his own choosing. No matter how the issue was viewed, it was still his decision to return here when he'd completed his _assignments_; his decision to drag himself back here and hide from the world that branded him murderer, outlaw, untouchable; and his decision to leave again the next day, like clockwork, and reenter that world to kill another of its denizens. A vicious cycle, and yet one he had made no definitive effort to halt. A person could hardly be called a prisoner if he had chosen the incarceration himself.  
  
His leather coat had been slung carelessly over the back of one chair, its ragged and mudstained end brushing the floor. The weapons normally concealed inside it were arrayed on the table in precise order, as if he'd been to inspect them, even in the dark. A tiny shaft of light had escaped the drawn curtain and was gleaming dully on the butts of the twin pistols. His haunted gaze avoided them. He sat in the dim murk, unmoving, watching the dust motes dance.  
  
He was a shadow in this room, when he visited here at all, leaving it as he had found it without mark or imprint upon its reality save for a stirring of dust. That was how he liked it.  
  
For someone who could not die (or rather, would inexplicably not stay dead), it was the closest he would ever come to feeling like a ghost.  
  
Gabriel Van Helsing lifted his eyes to the cross that hung on the wall. There were bullet holes outlining it, some still smoking from an earlier bout of rage that had lapsed into current brooding depression. So much for passing without a trace. He smiled suddenly, a humorless little quirk of the lips, and spoke to the cross. "Forgive me, chunk of wood, for I have sinned," he told it softly. "I have killed more people than I can count, including the woman I think I loved and her innocent brother. I have defied holy orders by letting the Frankenstein monster live, and by letting my own self live after becoming tainted by the werewolf's curse." Pause. "Though I assure you, I am quite cured at this time but for an occasional urge to bay at the full moon." He waited again, not really expecting any response but pausing politely just in case one was somehow made. After a moment of unbroken silence, he continued on. "I also dragged an inexperienced monk out onto the field, exposing him to corruption and danger and pretty Transylvanian barmaids and all sorts of other terrible things. Forgive me, I have sinned."  
  
The wooden cross was silent in the aftermath of this confession, as crosses had a tendency to be. Van Helsing shrugged and picked up the gun closest to him, beginning the meticulous process of reloading it.  
  
"Just thought you'd want to know."  
  
Carl would have reproached him for such irreverence, but probably not very loudly since Carl also had a healthy sense of self preservation. Cardinal Jinette would have given him that condescending holier-than-thou look he was so fond of, as if Van Helsing were nothing but a troublesome schoolboy given to pranks. And Anna would have....  
  
_Anna._  
  
A silver bullet fell to the floor, nearly followed by the gun itself before he lowered his shaking hands to his lap. His shoulders hunched, dark hair slipping forward to hide his face, and powerful muscles strained under the effort of keeping sudden anguish internal. His lips moved, but he did not cry out.  
  
A long moment passed. Then another. When Van Helsing finally straightened and brushed back his hair with calm detachment, there was no trace of sorrow left about his eyes or expression. Only blank emptiness, to match the void he felt inside.  
  
He finished reloading the revolver. Sighted down along it. Clicked the safety off, on, and off again. Closed his eyes and pictured Anna's face.  
  
The barrel was cold against his temple. He would have liked to say something again to the cross, or to Anna, but there were no more words. So he settled for letting out a deep breath and pulling the trigger.

........Some six and a half hours later, about the time for evening meal, someone knocked on the door. They knocked again when there was no answer, and then left.  
  
Van Helsing opened his eyes. Closed them again, seeing only darkness in both. Sat up in the huge sticky lake of blood pooled around him and looked about rather dejectedly. The cleaning staff was going to have an absolute fit over the mess.  
  
He rose stiffly, got washed and changed, and went down to dinner. 


End file.
